


Awkward Gestures

by devilinthedetails



Category: PIERCE Tamora - Works, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Bazhir, Cultural Differences, Cultural Imperialism, Gen, Gestures, Interpretation, Knight & Squire, mentoring, misinterpretation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-22 10:00:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14306268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilinthedetails/pseuds/devilinthedetails
Summary: Even simple gestures have different meanings to Bazhir and northerners as Jon and Zahir discover.





	Awkward Gestures

Awkward Gestures

“Congratulations, Zahir. You’ve become the latest of my squires to disarm me.” King Jonathan ruffled Zahir’s hair, sticky with sweat from their sword fight in a practice court radiant with spring sunlight that kissed their skin. “I’ll flatter myself by assuming that makes me an excellent teacher rather than a dismal swordsman.” 

Zahir wondered if this was a ploy to boost his confidence—if his knightmaster had held back his true strength and cunning throughout the bout so Zahir could win the duel—but it would be impertinent to ask, and he didn’t want to hear the answer anyway, so he settled for posing another awkward question which had an answer he didn’t wish to hear but believed in his bones that as a Bazhir he needed to know. “Do you understand what ruffling someone’s hair means among the Bazhir, sire?” 

“The same as among northerners, I suppose.” King Jonathan arched an eyebrow, and Zahir bit back a scowl at the casual assumption that the Bazhir interpreted gestures the same way as northerners and lacked their own language of gestures laden with nuances no outsider could comprehend. That, Zahir thought, was what the Voice was: an outsider. Before his knightmaster became Voice, nobody among the Bazhir had realized the need to articulate something that was as obvious to them as the fact that the sun rose in the east, and, after he was the Voice, no one had the courage to correct his misunderstanding. The Voice being an outsider put everyone in an awkward, untenable position. “If you would prefer that I refrain from ruffling your hair, you may just say so, squire. I’m aware that you’re the same age as Roald, and he long ago reached the stage where he felt hair-ruffling was an affront to his dignity.” 

The Crown Prince, in Zahir’s experience, was nothing if not dignified at all times. Seizing this opening as he squinted up at his knightmaster in the June sun that reminded him he had been the the king’s squire for over a year so he shouldn’t be scared of speaking his mind at least in the relative privacy of a practice court, “Hair-ruffling is always undignified among the Bazhir, Your Majesty. It’s a way for a superior to humiliate an underling, to push him back into his place.” 

“That’s not how I meant it.” King Jonathan squeezed Zahir’s shoulders. “I don’t intend to humiliate you.” 

“I know.” Zahir kicked at the dust in the practice court, stirring it up like a sandstorm to recall the desert that had created and comforted him in its harshness. “I thought you should be told, and it didn’t seem anyone else was ever going to do that, sire. I imagine it didn’t occur to anybody to explain the different language of gestures until after you were the Voice, and once you were the Voice, nobody would be eager to risk offending you.” 

“You were willing to take the risk of offending me, though,” remarked King Jonathan, eyes shining like an oasis in the sun, and Zahir interpreted that as a sign that levity was permitted and his king was not offended by his boldness. 

“I’m your squire.” Zahir’s lips twitched into the beginning of a smirk. “I’d be a poor one if I didn’t risk offending you sometimes, Your Majesty.” 

“Indeed. I’m grateful for your honesty.” King Jonathan patted Zahir’s shoulders. “I promise I won’t humiliate you by ruffling your hair again, Zahir.” 

“I don’t mind if you ruffle my hair.” Zahir’s confession should have burned him with shame but instead it warmed him with the memory of the informal, almost familial affection he felt when his knightmaster ruffled his hair. “I understand what you mean when you ruffle my hair, and I rather like it when you do. I just thought you should know that not every Bazhir would understand or like it, sire.” 

“Then I shall go on ruffling your hair.” King Jonathan’s fingers tossed Zahir’s hair, and Zahir soaked in the gentleness of the gesture to drown out the furious shouts of generations of proud Bazhir that would ring inside his ears forever, screaming that he was no Bazhir warrior but a pitiful pet of a northern king who reveled in his captivity instead of resisting it.


End file.
